It’s a Kind of Zombie Magic
by PADavis
Summary: Dean is totally into Zombie hunts right?  This one goes a little astray.  A surprise present for Merisha on her birthday.  Limp Sam, Hurt Dean, angsty protective both, hospital drama, fluff, and zombie goo.  Complete in three parts.  Rated for language.
1. Some head removal action tonight!

Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural belongs to me. Everything and all of us belong to the CW and Kripke Entertainment and Scrap Metal Company. I'm just taking them on an extended playdate.

A/N: June 2nd - Happy Birthday, Merisha. When she mentioned that she might write a fic for my birthday, I decided to (steal) share that idea and write one for her. And since her birthday is three days before mine, everyone will think I thought of it first. Yay! Many thanks to Scotia for the beta.

A/N 2: This is a Season 3 tag to _All I Want for Christmas_ by Merisha. I don't think you have to read it to understand this one, but if you haven't, I hope you'll read it anyway.

* * *

Damn it, he was going to have to take his brother to the hospital. He'd pulled and pushed until Sam's left shoulder slid back into its socket, and stitched and bandaged his left arm before Dean realized that the left wrist was more than sprained. He'd picked it up in both hands and gently gently pressed down on the swelling with his thumbs, and felt bone grate against bone. Sam grunted in pain, arching his back almost off the bed.

Bad as that was, that wasn't the reason Dean was heading for the hospital. No, the reason he had to take his baby brother in was that he just wouldn't stop crying. No matter what he said, or did, Sam was inconsolable. He hadn't done the crying jag with a concussion since he was a teenager, and Dean tried to remember if he had been as frustrated then, too. He pushed up Sam's eyelids again, making Sam groan a little, but at least he stopped apologizing for two seconds. And cursed like a big boy when the flashlight moved across his pupils. Unequal but reactive, no drift to the left or right.

Damn jiang shi. Dean seriously hated all this Japanese shit popping up all over the country.

He held Sam's right arm, rubbing the back of Sam's hand rhythmically with his thumb. He brushed Sam's bangs back away from his face. Sam was still crying and muttering, "I'm sorry … sorry … sorry. I'll get it back, shouldn't … I'm so sorry".

Sam had been on the sorry jag for two hours, ever since they got back from the hunt, nodding off only to jerk awake, crying and apologizing, and Dean still didn't know what he was sorry for. Sam hadn't done anything wrong, the fugly went down hard and brutal and dead. Sam was the one who was hurt. Hell, all he had was a cut or something on his back, nothing serious. Dean had been sure, if he could just get Sam settled for the night, they could go to a clinic in the morning to get the shoulder and arm x-rayed and cast. And then the crying started.

"Sammy, listen to me. There's nothing to be sorry about. If you don't stop crying, I'll have to take you to the hospital." He could feel how hot Sam was getting, so he had a fever too. At least Sam hadn't puked yet, yeah, like that meant a lot. He had chills, fever, a mangled left arm, broken wrist, dislocated shoulder, a concussion with hysterical crying but he hadn't puked. Sure, Sam was just fine.

Sam gasped out, "Sorry, get it back, Dean, get it …"

Dean still couldn't figure out what was wrong. "Sam. Sam, look at me." He took Sam's chin in his hand, holding his head still. "Open your eyes and look at me, Sam." Wonder of wonder, he did. His breathing was irregular, the pain and the crying making it hitch and stutter, and he looked awful - pale, sweaty, and there were still bits of leaves and shit sticking out of his hair. "Sam, what are you sorry for? What will you get back?"

Sam blinked owlishly at him, and took a sobbing breath.

"Don't cry, Sam. I'll make it better but I need you to answer me. What are you sorry for?" He ran his fingers over Sam's head, threading his fingers through his hair, combing out the litter.

Sam suddenly pulled his right arm out of Dean's hold and swung it a little wildly over his body, reaching for something on his left. Dean caught Sam's arm, and set it down on his stomach.

"Please, Sam, what are you looking for?"

"My … watch. Present." Sam starting making a humming noise back in his throat.

It was time to go.

Dean hooked an arm behind Sam's good shoulder, and slowly stood, bringing Sam up as gently as he could until he was sitting on the bed. Sam continued to mutter, with an occasional moan, as Dean helped him swing his legs over the side of the bed. Dean slid on Sam's sneakers, tying them loosely. He stopped and watched Sam carefully.

"Your watch, Sam? What about your watch?" He looked down at Sam's wrist involuntarily, because he would have noticed the watch while he was patching him up. He hadn't noticed it was off. "Where's your watch, man, I'll get it for you and then we'll go to the hospital."

"No", Sam moaned again. "No, not here. Sorry, Dean, so sorry."

"Where is it? Were you wearing it tonight?" Crap, how stupid could he be? Of course Sam had been wearing it. He never took it off.

Sam frowned a little, and said in a long suffering voice, "Of course, wearin' it. Don' take off."

That sounded more like his brother, the long suffering smart mouth. Then the kid tried to topple over sideways, but Dean caught him. He pulled his brother's right arm through his shirt sleeve, and buttoned it as best he could around Sam's chest and bandaged arm.

"Is your watch back in the forest?" It had to be – the thing's claws must have snagged the strap. Sam had the slashes to prove it.

"Yeah, forest. Gone." Tears started down his face again, dripping off the tip of his nose. He looked five years old again. Dean knelt on the floor, and brought Sam's chin up so that he could look into his eyes.

"Don't worry, Sam. I'll get you another one. A better one."

Sam wailed. "No, not 'nother one. Wan' that one. Says 'bitch'. Has to be that one."

"OK, Sam, I'll get that one for you. But first, I'm getting you to the hospital. No arguments." He stood, and hoisted Sam to his feet, waiting to see if his knees would lock. Sam started to look a little green. "No vomiting either – or at least wait 'til we're outside…" Too late. Dean snagged the trashcan and kept Sam from faceplanting as he bent over the can and heaved.

When he was done, Dean got him mostly upright, looped Sam's right arm over his shoulder, and wrapped his own left arm around to grab one of the belt loops on Sam's jeans. Holding Sam's right arm tight, Dean led and carried Sam out to the Impala, and braced Sam upright with his hip while he opened the back door. He then rolled in all eighteen feet of baby brother, pushing and pulling Sam's legs up and working his feet into the seat well.

Dean bounded back into the room, grabbing towels, one of the duvets, and the trash can, and was back out the door. The trashcan he left on the walkway between rooms, the pillows went under Sam's head and arm, the duvet over him, and the towels near his head in case he was sick again.

Dean slammed the door shut, ran to the driver's side, and peeled out of the parking lot.

* * *

_Some hours previously…_

* * *

Dean was so excited Sam said he could see him vibrating. Dean had a katana in his right hand, sweeping it in exaggerated movements, stopping with the blade in dramatic positions, all the while humming _Princes of the Universe_.

When Sam looked up, Dean caught his eye and struck a pose. "Do I look like that Highlander guy? The one from the TV show, not that French wussy from the movies."

"Dude, you haven't had a pigtail since you were 15. And Dad shot it off."

Dean pursed his lips in a moue of disgust. Dad wasn't kidding when he said he'd get rid of it if Dean didn't. When Dad pulled his pigtail straight out and shot a salt round into it point blank, he'd been so startled he'd almost passed out. Almost fainted liked a little girl is what his Dad said.

While Sam made yelling at Dad a life goal, Dean could count the times he'd yelled at his father on the fingers of one hand, and that was one of them. The only thing he didn't understand was why Dad didn't make him balance an apple on his eyelid while he was at it, so Dad could do that whole William Tell thing.

And Dad'd never shot off _Sam's_ hair. He dismissed that as he dismissed all the old unfair Dad shit, and he muttered, "Don't need no stinking pigtail" before he realized Sam was already heading down the path. He caught up and stepped in front of him, per his personal SOP, hearing Sam huff in exasperation. He looked over his shoulder. "At least I've had more than one hair style in my life, Mophead … McJanitor."

"Had to reach for that one, didn't you?"

Dean shot a finger over his shoulder, but forged on. "Zombie action, Sam, can you believe it? A Japanese zombie, sure but its still a zombie, right?" He slashed the sword in front of him, the razor sharp blade slicing through leaves instead of zombies. "Some head removal action tonight!"

* * *

"It's the little things that make life worth living, isn't it?" Sam replied, in his best unctuous Dr. Phil voice. Dean chuckled, he actually chuckled at that. Sam couldn't help smiling. When Dean was happy these days, Sam was happy.

"The old road is through here, right?"

"Yeah, jiang shis like roadways. They might even be restricted to them, but Dad wasn't sure. I told you, I researched this nine ways and couldn't find a straight answer. This one's victims have been found back in the old cemetery, and its clearly going over to the main road", he pointed back over his shoulder even though Dean wasn't looking, "but the sightings have all been on the old road itself."

"Let's hope the local constabulary hasn't decided to stake this place out." He waved Sam to a stop, cut a break in the undergrowth, and emerged next to the roadway.

Sam thought road was a relative term since this was so old what pavement left was cracked and overgrown. The full moon illuminated the area in stark black and white.

Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam. "Is the full moon a good thing or a bad thing for us?"

Sam stepped up to stand next to him and patiently explained, and he was pretty sure Dean could hear the patient, that the victims were all killed during a full moon. Which was why they were out here tonight. They both surveyed the area. Sam pointed at a lopsided gate in a wrought iron fence marking the entrance to the neglected cemetery.

Dean stepped to the middle of the road, sword held just so in front of him, and with a white toothed grin at Sam, starting calling, "Come out, come out, where ever you are. Here boy, olly olly, oxen free. _Korede otokonoko._ Come to Papa, you little jiang shit." He even whistled.

Sam thought he would go insane if he listened to any more of Dean riffing movie Japanese to a monster, so he crossed the road and stepped up to the gate, sweeping his flashlight's beam across the open area. He was just turning to say something to Dean, probably along the lines of, 'Do you _want_ to be dinner, you moron?", when his left arm took on a life of its own and started pulling him down the road, fast, in a jerking motion that was hell on his shoulder. He yelped as his feet went out from under him, and cranked his head up to get a good look at what was using his arm as a handle. He wished he hadn't.

He dug in his heels and pulled back hard. He was a lot bigger than the hopper and if he could just stand up he could take it. He managed to slow it down for a few seconds – long enough to pull the machete hanging on his belt loose and swing it into and mostly through its leg, and long enough to hear Dean's shout and running footsteps coming up behind him. His reprieve ended abruptly when the thing jerked him into the air by his arm and spun, blindingly fast, only to release and send him flying like an Olympic hammer throw. He heard bones break and felt a blinding pain in his shoulder, and had just enough time to think, 'Who's the moron now?' for letting the thing get the drop on him before a tree was introduced to his head.

* * *

Dean had been looking away from the cemetery, doing a slow 360 scan, when he heard Sam yelp. By the time he spotted his brother, he was already yards away, and it was hard to piece together what he was seeing. The fugly was hopping down the road like a freak on a pogo stick dragging Sam behind it.

Dean was already in motion, brandishing the sword and shouting "You kaibutsu, um, biggu koudai bakemono, akuma, ah hell, fucking dead person, get your hands off my brother!"

He saw Sam get in a good cut to the thing's leg, but before he could cheer him on, Sam went sailing into the woods, hit something, and then rolled limply back a few feet toward the road.

Dean screamed "Sam!" and almost plowed right into the jiang shi since he was going full tilt and watching Sam instead of where he was going.

The thing hopped away from him, like a skinny human shaped frog cadaver with white stringy hair, then hopped again, landing behind Dean. 'Just like a freakin' spirit doing the here/there thing.' He felt something hit his back and pull as he spun, slicing the sword right through the monster's right arm at the elbow, and lodging the katana in its chest.

The arm hit the ground with a squishy noise. Dean yanked the sword free, hearing ribs crunch, and saw a dark lumpy fluid start to drip out of the wound. He was absurdly grateful he couldn't tell what color it was in the moonlight. Close up, he could see the furry skin, bone white in the moonlight, with glow in the dark patches that were probably the green fungus stuff Sam said something about.

The jiang shi started making a slobbery chittering noise which was almost worse than the chunky pus coming out of its stump and chest. And leg. Dean set his feet, and swung again, using his shoulders and hips, and chopped off its left arm and most of its shoulder as it reached out for him. More gross, squishy, wet chittering noises. It was still trying to hop with its damaged leg.

Dean hoped this would not get any more freaking disgusting or his head was going to blow up. He swung and took off its head in one smooth fast stroke, the blade slicing through the skin, muscle, ligament, and spine cleanly. Son of a bitch – just like the show. Looking down at the now unmoving corpse, he said portentously, "There can be only one." Awesomely cool.

He raced back to where he'd left the duffel, and sped back skidding to a stop next to his brother, ghosting his hands over his arms and legs and head. He knew the left arm was bad, but nothing else seemed to be broken. Sam had a bump growing on the side of his head which Dean brushed gently, finding and removing some foresty stuff, probably bark. He didn't find any blood. Turning his attention to Sam's left arm, Dean felt the dislocation in the shoulder. He shifted to sit cross-legged and brought Sam's head and shoulders and left arm up to rest on his lap.

Tugging the first aid kit over, Dean poured first holy water, then alcohol over Sam's arm. No reaction to either, which was good since it meant no demonic infections, but bad because Sam should have felt the alcohol. He'd been unconscious forever, a good four minutes at least, and Dean wouldn't be happy until Sam woke up. But not before Dean reset the shoulder.

Once the Sam's arm was wrapped and bound to his chest, Dean tried to wake his brother. He called Sam's name, tapped his cheek, pulled up an eyelid, pinched him, even called him a little ikeike. That was a great word. "Wake up, ikeike – come on and wake up, ikeike".

"Wha'd you call me?" Sam was trying to move, and cracked his eyes open.

"Hey. How's the head?"

Sam brought his right hand up and ran it over his head. "OK, I think."

"Right. Can you swallow some Tylenol?"

Dean could see Sam trying to think about the question, but his only reply was, "What?"

"Here, I'm going to get you some water and a couple of pills." He put two capsules in Sam's palm and helped him guide the pills into his mouth. Then Dean held the water bottle while Sam took a couple of sips. Dean looked at him critically. "OK, Sam, you know the drill. Three questions."

Sam looked a little puzzled but managed to say, "Um, favorite pie, flanges…" before Dean interrupted him.

"Not for me, you idiot, you're the concussion boy. Your birthday, your current emo group, your first kiss."

Sam scrunched up his face, and muttered, "May second. Firehouse, um, light, something house anyway. Pretty sure." He looked up at Dean. "I'm sucking at this. I maybe have a concussion?"

"You think?" Dean knew enough at least to know the band name was wrong. "How about the first girl you kissed?"

"Linda Peterson."

"What? Linda Peterson? Are you kidding me? When? What happened to Mary Ellen Hoffstader?"

"Whoa, dude, slow down. Umm, Linda was the back of the library, March or something. Before the formal. Mary Ellen was the Formal."

"You sly dog. Linda was totally hot." He touched Sam's good shoulder, getting his attention. "I'm just saying, this had better be true and not just be the concussion talking." He looked around. "I've got to take care of the corpse. What kind of nature geeks walk around in places like this anyway so that a zombie can eat them? Boy Scouts probably." He looked at Sam. "Promise me you won't let a Scout get you while I'm dealing with the living dead, OK?"

* * *

Sam was able to pull up a smile of sorts. "I could so take on a Girl Scout." He tried to focus his eyes, with little success. "Dean…"

"Yeah - what do you need?"

"You said 'olly olly oxen free' to a zombie? What is the matter with you?"

Dean ducked his head a little bit, grinning. He said, "I think it was the Japanese that brought it us though. To you, at least. Didn't you hear Froggie?"

"Not a croak." He covered his eyes with his right arm. "Jiang shi is Chinese. The revenants here are Japanese – internment camps … remember?" He sighed in resignation. "You never listen. You might have called it something nice by accident. Or told it to attack me." He tried to move his left arm and twitched in pain but saw Dean duck his head again, accepting the blame.

"It's OK, s' not what happened." He breathed out, "How's my arm?"

"It's still attached. Pulled, cut, broken, and dislocated. But you can still talk the geek talk so the concussion probably isn't that bad."

"How soon can we leave?"

"Just need to do the whole chop and stake in the cemetery." Dean pulled his Zombie killing equipment from the duffel and then carefully slid out from under Sam, setting the pack under Sam's head for a pillow. "Sorry you're going to miss it, aren't you?"

"Take a picture." Sam's eyes started to close, and he lost track of where he was. He was laying down, his head on a pillow … he said vaguely, "I'll be fine here by the pool."

He heard Dean laugh, and opened his eyes to see Dean stand and collect his bamboo stake, kerosene, and sword. His brother stared intently at the jiang shi's body for a minute, before giving the head an experimental kick.

"Is it going to bite me?"

"Nope. Perfectly safe." Dean trotted to the gate and disappeared for a few minutes. When Sam could see him again, Dean was once again staring at the fugly.

Sam tried to lift his head to get a look, but it only made him gasp in pain. Dean walked over to him, and knelt on the road next to his brother.

"What're you doin?'

Dean felt his forehead and picked something out of his hair. "Checking you out, hot stuff. What else would I be doing with the stud muffin who sucked face with Linda Peterson? Seriously, are you going to be OK while I take care of the fugly?"

Sam grunted.

Dean said, "I'll take that as a yes." He looked back toward the dead zombie, before looking back at Sam. "I was trying to figure out how to pick up the bits without getting zombie goo on my hands. The fur is really gross. I could skewer the head I guess, but the arms would fall apart…." Sam started to gag. Dean was instantly repentant. "Oh man, I'm so sorry. Do you need to puke?"

Sam grunted negatively this time. "God, jus' stop talking about it."

"Got it. I'll just telekinetically float the pieces into the cemetery." He patted Sam's good shoulder and disappeared from view. Telekinetically or not, after a while of not paying too much attention, Sam smelled smoke, so he knew Dean had managed it somehow. His time sense was shot, as apparently were his other senses, since Dean was suddenly looking down at him. He almost jerked in surprise, but was able to tone it back to a twitch.

"I must've said your name five times, Sam. Are you sure your head's OK? How bad's the concussion?"

"It's not that bad, just some dizziness. Did it float OK?"

Dean laughed. "Sure did, nice and easy. Put itself right in the grave too."

"Did you do all the steps?"

He pursed his lips but went ahead and ticked off his count on his fingers. "Head off, check. Head between feet, check. Body separated into pieces, check." Sam tried to say something, but Dean interrupted. "I know that's not _officially_ a step, but it kind of came apart on its own, so I'm counting it. Um, where was I? Oh, stake through the heart, check. Sprinkled with sake, check. Burned to a crisp, check. Under 6 feet of earth, check. Our work here is done."

Sam rubbed his eyes. "Was sake another unofficial step?"

"Yeah." Dean held up the bottle and took a swig. "Figured it can't hurt to have some on standby what with all these Japanese fuglies popping up." He took another gulp before tucking the bottle in the duffel. "Come on, Skunk Ape, time to get you to the car."

* * *

My thanks as well to Scotia for great concussion Q&A.

Bad Japanese

Translated (poorly) word by word online only because I figure that's how Dean would do it. And I was lazy. They probably all mean something totally different strung together this way - like "grab the big guy by the gate".

_Jiang shi or Jiangshi _'Stiff Corpse' a Chinese, Korean, or Japanese revenant

_Korede otokonoko _Here Boy

_kaibutsu, um, biggu koudai bakemono, akuma _monster, um, big huge monster, demon

_ikeike _bitch


	2. Like freaking evil luggage

Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural belongs to me. Everything and all of us belong to the CW and Kripke Entertainment and Scrap Metal Company. This is just a playdate, the boys are on the swing set now.

A/N: June 2nd - Still a birthday fic for Merisha. And who knew she had a crush on Adrian Paul when she was just a pup.

* * *

Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. He was outside Radiology waiting for the staff to wheel Sam out. He didn't know he'd fallen asleep until he heard footsteps approaching. He shook himself and grimaced. He rubbed his eyes, and before he could stop her, the approaching nurse touched his back, making him jerk.

"Mr. Newsted? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, just tired. How's my brother?"

"We're going to admit him. We'll bring him out soon. You can walk with him to his room in a few minutes." She smiled, and walked back.

He stood and tried to stretch, but his back felt like shit. Probably from carrying his personal sized Godzilla all over hell and gone - to the car, to the room, to the car, to the hospital … he shivered suddenly, glad he'd grabbed his denim jacket before coming. He still smelled like smoke, but he'd scrubbed his face and hands in the men's room. He'd really clean up once Sam was settled and awake. Just as Sam's gurney was rolled into the hallway, a doctor approached him.

"Mr. Newsted, right? I'm Dr. Waters. I'd like to talk to you about your brother's condition." He waved Dean back toward his chair and sat down next to him. Dean didn't take his eyes off the gurney until it disappeared around a corner. "I have to admit I'm concerned about", checking his file, "your brother, Samuel. He became so agitated during our examination that he had to be sedated. He's obviously distressed about something he says he lost. He kept saying your name."

"His watch, it came off when the cougar attacked him. It was a present from me. He's been on a crying jag for a couple of hours – that's why I brought him in. The last time he got this weepy with a concussion he had a borderline fracture. Did you see anything", he waved toward the door to Radiology, "when you took a look?"

"I didn't see anything with the initial films of his skull, but we'll know more when the MRI has been reviewed and your brother assessed by the neurosurgeon on call." He looked straight at Dean. "Has your brother had a lot of concussions before?"

"No, not a lot. We were always active as kids, and Sam was always such a daredevil, falling out of trees and off bikes." He looked down the hallway again. "Can we talk while I walk to Sam's room?"

"Just a few more questions. Sam broke a lot of bones too, didn't he? Over the years."

Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know where this was going. "Yeah, skiing, soccer, rock climbing, that kind of thing. He broke his right wrist last year." He pulled himself out of the chair, crossed his arms, and waited.

"Did you stitch up his arm?"

Dean just looked at him.

The doctor hesitated for just a moment. "It's a great job. I couldn't help but notice that he has quite a few old scars. Did, um, Sam have any kind of analgesic before you put in the stitches?"

"Painkiller? Tylenol, but nothing else because of the concussion. And yeah, I put in the stitches."

"And putting the shoulder back? That's almost unbearably painful. Did Sam have any painkiller for that?"

"What are you asking me, doctor? We're adults and yeah, we're both pretty rough and tumble kind of guys. Dad was a Marine and took care of most of our childhood scrapes. We learned from him." He started down the hallway, exasperated, his back on fire. "I'm going to my brother's room. If you want to keep talking, you can follow me there."

The doctor didn't follow him. He found Sam's room easily enough, and Sam, mouth open and sound asleep. He still looked five years old. God, with all this crying, he might as well be five again. More importantly, he also found an upholstered chair. He took off his jacket, put his feet up on the foot of Sam's bed, turned on the TV, and settled in to wait for his brother to wake up.

Sam started to move a little just before dawn, his first shift on the bed startling Dean awake. He checked his watch and was relieved to see that he'd only been asleep for an hour. He didn't trust hospitals, or the people in them, but Sam was right there in the bed and looked OK. Dean stood slowly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and yawned. Putting down the railing on one side, he hitched up one hip and leg and perched on Sam's bed.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty." Sam's eyes were moving under his lids. Dean put a hand gently on Sam's arm. "Come on Sam, wake up for me."

Sam murmured something, and then opened his eyes half way. "Dean?"

"Of course. Don't move your head. How're you feeling?" He held a cup of water in front of Sam, and offered him the straw. "You're probably thirsty."

Sam groped for the straw with his right hand, Dean catching it before he could tug too hard on the IVs. "Whoa there, you're tethered. Let me help," and got the straw in his mouth. "Drink up, Teary McCryerson. You must be running dry."

Sam drank a bit before turning wounded eyes on Dean. He whispered, "Teary?" His face screwed up and Dean watched in horror as Sam began crying.

"What the hell, Sam? Its OK, it's all right, I didn't mean anything, just a joke. Don't cry."

"You called me a name. Are you mad 'cause I lost my watch?"

"Mad at you – why would you think that? You still all scrambled up there? Come on, quit crying, I'm begging you. You're not five years old."

Sam gulped and used the tissue Dean handed him to dry his eyes. "OK, just don't be mean again."

"I won't be mean, I promise. The doctor should be in here in about 45 minutes. Not the prick from last night, either."

Sam looked more awake and was frowning a little. "What happened?"

"A demonic Japanese cougar attached you, that's what." He tried to get Sam to smile. "Your shoulder was set properly, you're very welcome, the zombie cuts aren't infected, and your wrist's in a cast. The x-rays of your head were good, you passed the neurosurgeon's inspection, and we're waiting for the MRI results." He looked again at his brother. "Sam, I need to tell you something that you have to remember. You are Sam Newsted, and a cougar attacked you. You don't remember where. You got that?"

"Sam Newsted, cougar, unknown. Check."

"The doc last night kept asking me questions about you – he saw some old breaks on the x-rays. He asked if I had stitched you, and if you had any pain medicine before I did that and your shoulder. Got that too?"

"Why would he ask about that?"

Dean could almost see Sam trying to get his brain working. "I'm not sure, but I think he thinks I hurt you," and then could have kicked himself. Sam's breathing hitched and he was crying again.

"You didn't hurt me. You wouldn't hurt me." He grabbed Dean's arm with surprising strength. "I'll set them straight."

"Not necessary, just try to think about it when you talk to them."

"'K, check." He frowned. "My watch? Did you find it?"

"Dude, I've been here all night. I'll find it as soon as you're better." He watched tears drip dow his brother's face. It was going to rip his heart right out of his body. He kept a steady stream of fresh tissues into Sam's hand and old ones into the wastebasket. "Sam, come on, try to not cry anymore – you're killing me here."

"No, now, find it now. Don' wanna wait."

"You want me to leave you alone in a hospital?" He blinked. "Alone in the hospital, Sammy? You absolutely positive about this?"

Sam started to push up on his right arm, his breathing sped up, and he was taking way too many sobbing breaths. His words came out two or three at a time, "My watch … I need it back … has words … someone could take it …" Machines were starting to make little alarm noises.

"Sam, calm down. I'll find the watch as soon as you're better, I swear, I'll find it, just calm down." He was holding Sam's hand, chick flick be damned. "Please don't cry, Sam. I'll find the watch before some Cub Scout steals it. I'll leave as soon as the doctor talks to us, OK? Come on, man, the machines are going a little nuts here."

Sam wouldn't have any of it. Just as a nurse rushed into the room, Sam said, "_Please,_ Dean, please get it. I don' mind being here alone. I want you to go."

The nurse checked Sam's vitals and carefully removed Sam's hand from his and set it on the bed. Sam cried harder and reached for Dean. The nurse turned to look at Dean. "Sir, you are upsetting the patient. I'm going to have to ask you to leave the room." She scanned the chart before pulling a syringe from her pocket and injecting it into the IV line.

"What did you give him?"

"A mild sedative the doctor prescribed last night in case he became agitated. He was afraid this would happen when Sam saw you again. Your brother will be fine but he has to rest. You aren't helping him by upsetting him this way. We may have to restrict your visiting times." Sam's eyes were already starting to droop.

"I wasn't upsetting him, it's the concussion. Hold on, hold on." Dean grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on. He put Sam's cell on the rolling table and, after hesitating a few seconds, pulled off his watch and set it on the table as well. "OK, Sam, I'm going and I'll come back as soon as I can. I'll find it, promise." He held up the phone. "You need me sooner, just hit talk, I've got it set."

He took the nurses' arm and led her toward the door. "He hates being alone in the hospital. If he doesn't remember why I'm not here, he'll panic when he wakes up." He pointed at the phone. "Tell him I went to get his watch, OK? You call me if it's bad."

She nodded, but all she said was "You need to leave the room and let him sleep."

"Tell the doc I'll need the full report when I get back. He can call me, too." He took one last look at his brother, and headed to the elevator and the parking lot. The first thing he needed to do was rig up an IV of black coffee. He was beat.

* * *

Dean was more than tired of all the new supernatural trash people were bringing with them from all over. They brought their fuglies with them, right into the US, jammed in their back pockets or riding their backs, coming with them like freaking evil luggage. He knew for a fact that America had enough homemade crap without always importing more. And this oriental shit was just wrong on so many levels. The floating head thing was … he groped for a word. Revolting. At least a zombie was a zombie was a zombie. He was laughing at his own joke as he stepped back out on the old road, as close as he could get to where they'd been the night before.

The day was pretty warm already. He'd had to peel off his jacket, and his shirt was sticking to his back. Guess the thing had cut him a bit. He hadn't had time to look at it before taking Sam in, but maybe he could grab a shower on the way back to the hospital. And he was still tired.

This concussion was wearing them both out. What with the deal coming due in a few months maybe it wasn't too surprising that his brother became Little Miss Sobby Samantha again. He'd been wound up pretty tight, as tight as Dean'd been most of the year. He sure missed last year's Sam who was pretty funny with a concussion, researching imaginary monsters, or convinced Dean had painted polka dots on the car. A concussion to Sam was what LSD was to, well, other people. Between the mushroom people in his salad and watching a few minutes of an imaginary soccer match on TV – even giving Dean an impromptu and detailed description of the play by play – well, let it be said, sometimes when he was bored he considered hitting Sam's head himself. He rubbed his eyes.

He scanned the road carefully. The watch should be big enough and black enough to see if it was on top of what was left of the pavement. He knew how big it was, after all, he'd bought the thing after Sam drooled over it for months. He didn't mind, Swiss Army stuff was cool shit, and the little compass … well Sam could get lost going to the bathroom in a bar, sober. He'd never tell Sam, but the first time the boy used the compass to drag his ass back to the Impala more than made up for the M&Ms and charity car washes he'd given up to afford it.

He walked down the road slowly, scanning back and forth until he got to where he'd collected Sam, and then went another couple of yards. The boy had gone flying, and the watch could have followed him into the woods, or flown off in another direction entirely, or been dropped further back. It was crazy to think he was going to find it. His stomach lurched when he thought how close Sam had been to … well enough of that.

Sam wasn't dying again on his watch, not while he was alive and the deal hadn't come due. And Sam bitched about that, god how he bitched and moaned, but why Mr. Mensa couldn't figure out that no amount of complaining would bother him, since the whole point was that Sam was able to complain ... He knew Sam was upset, and would be that way for a while, and Dean was sorry for that, but Sam'd be _alive_ to deal with this just like Dean dealt with Dad's deal. And he'd deal better with it. God, he hoped Sam would deal better than he had.

He started back toward the cemetery, looking on the shoulder of the road to a few feet into the woods. When he got back to where he found Sam, he stepped into the woods and found the tree that Sam's head had run into. He picked up a good sturdy, and mostly straight, branch, and as he circled around the area, moving further into the woods with each loop, he used it to move branches and undergrowth aside. He went to check the time and once again found only his bare wrist. After what he thought was thirty minutes, he returned to the shoulder and slowly paced along. He reached the gate, watchless, and wiped sweat off with his forearm. The sun was up and baking him like a spud.

He thought about sitting down for a minute, but instead remembered that Sam had been right here at the gate when that fugly tried to rip his arm off, so he spent a few minutes looking just inside of and to both sides of the gate. Nada. He was wiping sweat out of his eyes for the millionth time when he heard something behind him.

He ended flat on his sore back in the road, with a jiu-jitsu, Chung King, crap, another jiang shi on his chest. How he kept finding things in pairs – just more fan-fucking-tastic Winchester luck.

He swung the stick and rolled, forcing the thing to hop grotesquely away, white hair flying. And what the hell was it doing out during the day? As the thing hopped around him, lightening fast, and he swung his stick, he reminded himself for the millionth time what a moron he was for not actually listening as closely as he probably should when Sam told him about his research. Maybe he missed where they came out in sunlight. He usually remembered the really important stuff.

He was so tired his head was swimming and it was hard to keep the thing from getting behind him. After connecting a couple of times with his branch turned quarterstaff, he had broken one of its legs and removed an ear, and it was making the same sick slobbery noise the other one did. He bent, groaning as his back pulled, and grabbed his boot knife. He was going to hate this part.

It ended as most of these things did, except for the amount of zombie spew that gushed on him. Most of its teeth had fallen out when Dean got an elbow kind of wedged in its mouth, so it didn't bite him much, but its claws were wicked sharp. But then, so was his knife.

He'd found a part of his back that didn't hurt, and was leaning against a headstone concentrating on breathing and using the knife to remove the ooze out from under his fingernails before he was sick. Again. He hated having to dissect that frog in high school, too. He idly picked some of the fur off his jeans. Hope he wasn't allergic to this thing. He finally staggered to his feet. Another successful Chef Boyardee … Yankee … oriental thing down.

What was that Star Trek rose thing – oh yeah. A zombie by any other name would … smell as foul, hop as much, be as gross. He caught himself when he started to giggle, clapping a hand over his mouth. Maybe he shouldn't have had more sake but the trip to get the all the zombie stuff and back to the cemetery took a really long time.

Of course he didn't know how long, since he didn't have his watch, and he still couldn't remember that until he looked at his naked wrist for the zillionth time. And he's had to whittle a point on the second bamboo pole he squirreled in the trunk. Sam might call that OCD but he called it good planning. Shit like this always happened to him but mostly when Sam wasn't around.

He got back to the road before he needed to sit down again. He found the sweet spot on his back and let it rest against the fence. He let his head fall back and squinted at the sun and figured it was Noon or a little after. Oh, yeah, he could check the time on his phone. Crap, Sam was going to freak. He tried Sam's cell for the third time that morning, and it went straight to voice mail again. He called the hospital. The day time doc wasn't available, and they wouldn't put him through to Sam's room, only connect him to the floor nurse. She said Sam was asleep and shouldn't be bothered.

"Oh, OK, that's good. Has he been upset?" He scrubbed his face. "Is he asking for me?"

"Your brother is fine. You've missed morning visiting hours, but you can come back between five and seven this evening."

She hung up before he could say anything. Visiting hours? Fuck that. But if Sam was quiet, he'd either had some good drugs going on, or someone was sitting on him to keep him from calling. At least he had the watch, so he'd maybe remember where Dean was.

A zombie by any other name would gush sick looking orange and green ichor all over him just the same. That was a good one. He laughed until he realized he was going to be sick. Again. Groaning, he rolled to one side, but anything that was in there came out a couple of times ago in the graveyard. He heaved and heaved nothing at all, and felt blood trickling down his back.

He rolled back upright, over corrected and sprawled the other way. Sam's watch – right there. He sighed in relief and picked it up.

He used the shovel to help get him back on his feet. He checked the watch over, pulling a blade of grass out from where it had stuck in the wristband. It looked fine – the band was a little scratched but the crystal was intact and not only did it turn out to be 12:53 PM on the 17th day of the month, he was facing northwest.

He flipped it over and ran his thumb over the inscription as he had countless times that Christmas Eve waiting for Sam to wake up. The jeweler had given him the eye when he asked to have 'bitch' inscribed on the watch. He glanced down and brought it up to his eyes for a closer look. Under the word bitch, there was something else. He squinted and angled the watch to catch the sun. Sam had had another word inscribed just underneath - jerk. Ah hell, no wonder he wanted this one back. He felt tears start and rubbed his eyes. And here he was calling Sam a girl.

He put the watch in the cleanest pocket he had and headed for the car. He had to get this back to the hospital before Sam cried so much he shriveled up and blew away. He found another tee shirt in the trunk, jammed under the tool kit and a cross bow. He thought it used to be blue. He hesitated for a minute but quickly decided it couldn't possibly be as dirty as the one he was wearing, even if he'd used it as an oil rag.

He stood next to the car while he extricated himself from what was left of the black shirt, hissing as he drew it over his back, then used the black scraps of it to brush off his jeans and boots. He thought about throwing what was left it into the woods, but finally just chucked it into the trunk. He poured a couple of bottles of water over his head, neck, hands, and arms, scrubbing his face and hair, before drying off with the towels he'd snagged from the motel.

He put on the previously blue shirt and his jacket, when he realized the water was making him shiver despite the heat. When he got in the car, he cranked the rear view mirror around to see if he could possibly look sane enough to get into the hospital, and get close enough to sneak in and see Sam. He was pretty sure he looked sane enough, or at least not insane enough, to pass. Pretty sure he'd get in. Really pretty sure.


	3. Let the concussed guy keep watch

Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural belongs to me. Everything and all of us belong to the CW and Kripke Entertainment and Scrap Metal Company. Harder than I thought to get the kids out of the sand box, but the playdate's just about over.

A/N: June 2nd - Final installment of Merisha's 2008 birthday fic. And no, that doesn't necessarily mean I'll write you another one next year. I may be too traumatized from the end of the fourth season. It was a close call on being too traumatized to walk after the end of the third season.

A/N 2: Extra big serving of schmoop with schmoop sauce just for you, Merisha.

* * *

Sam was going stark raving mad. When he woke up and didn't see Dean, he'd been totally unable to stop himself from bursting into tears. Dean _never_ left him alone in the hospital. He glanced at the table and saw Dean's watch. He ran his fingers around the band before smashing the call button.

When a nurse appeared, he asked if she'd seen his brother that morning. She admitted she had. "Do you know when he's coming back?" He sniffled reaching for a tissue.

"He left about 6 o'clock. He didn't say when he'd be back." She checked some equipment, took his temperature, and eyed his IV bags. "He can come back during visiting hours."

"What, why? He's my brother, he's supposed to be here."

"I know he upset you, but we won't let him back in if you don't want to see him."

"Don't want to see him - are you nuts?" He grabbed a tissue and blew his nose. Used another to dry his eyes. "Of course I want to see him. He didn't upset me, the concussion did." He winced as his head moved. "I need my brother here. Did he say anything – wait, could you get me my cell phone please? It was right here…." He looked around on the table, then turned his head very carefully toward the stand by the bed. The nurse injected something into his IV. "I need my cell phone please."

"Just relax, Mr. Newsted. The doctor doesn't want you disturbed right now, and we don't allow cell phone use in patient rooms. You should be able to make a phone call on the room phone tomorrow." She brought his bed up slowly, handed him the TV remote and set the call button next to his right arm. "It's a small dose, just enough to keep you comfortable, but not totally zonked. You'll be able to watch TV or sleep, whatever you like."

"I'd _like_ to call my brother." He gave her his best pitiful big eyed look. Dean called it channeling his inner puppy.

"Oh, don't be upset, honey. I'll see what I can do about the phone, but you have to rest."

He blinked, feeling a warm lassitude spread through his limbs. "Get the doctor. Not sure I'll un'nerstan…" he swallowed, and carefully said, "understand everything, but I need to see the doctor. And another box of tissues."

"I'll page Dr. Jeffers right now." She smiled, refilled his water glass, and stepped out.

Sam was staring at the upholstered chair when the doctor came in. He wasn't sure why, his eyes just moved that way, and despite what the nurse said he was too zonked out to move them anywhere else. There was a pattern on the fabric that he'd been trying to figure out, but he kept losing his place because there was a something dark covering a crucial part of the design. He yawned and attempted to unzonkify himself. He'd rip out his own IV if they tried to put more of that stuff in there without his permission. God, he wanted to talk to Dean. He'd looked again for his cell, then, moving as much as his head would allow, tried to see if he couldn't spot the room phone tucked away somewhere. This was just barbaric. After a while, he realized he was back to staring at the chair again. Not so awake yet. There was something … not right. He squinched up his eyes, and tried again to will his synapses to start firing again.

So when a gentleman in a white coat and stethoscope came in, Sam ignored the fact that he was a doctor, and probably his doctor coming to tell him something important, and instead, pointed at the chair and said, "What's that dark stuff?"

"Excuse me?"

"The chair. On the back of the chair. That dark stuff – it's like a stain. What is it?"

"Don't worry about it. I'll ask for another chair for your room. I'm Dr Jeffers."

"Would you just go look at it? Please? I'd go myself, but" waving his right arm, "I'm stuck. Could you just go touch it?"

"Ah, sure thing." The doctor pulled on a glove as he took the few steps to the chair and ran his fingers down the stain. He looked puzzled when he looked at his fingers. He touched the stain again. "This is peculiar. I know what this looks like, but how did it get on the chair?"

Sam tried to crane his head to see the glove. He was afraid he knew exactly what it was. He asked, resignedly, "What is it?"

"It looks like blood, mostly dry, but still a little tacky in spots."

Sam groaned bringing the doctor's eyes to his face. "My brother. My brother who slept in that chair last night. My brother who slept in that chair last night and bled on it. Fucktard." Sam finally looked away from the chair. "Oh, sorry, not you. My brother Dean. He can be such a moron sometimes. He didn't tell me he got hurt too. Did anyone check him out?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. There are some notes from the physician on duty last night about him, but nothing about him being injured. Why isn't he still here if he's hurt?"

"He never thinks he's hurt, or tells me it's nothing, or he's fine when he isn't. It's impossible to get him to a doctor." He took a shuddering breath. "And I made him leave. I lost my watch when it clawed my arm and I made him go look for it." He felt tears start to well in his eyes. "Damn this concussion. I can't think straight and I can't stop crying."

"That should start getting a lot better - maybe as early as today. Mr. Newsted, your nurse heard you ask your brother to leave, that you wanted to be alone. Is that right?"

"It's Sam and no, no, that can't be right. I told him I'd be alright alone in the hospital. I must have lost my mind." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "He went to look for my watch. He left me his so I'd know where he'd gone." He showed Dean's watch to the doctor.

"He went back by himself to where the cougar attacked you? Injured? For a watch?" He looked at the chart again. "That doesn't sound like the man Dr Waters met last night."

"What did Dean do?"

"It wasn't so much what he did, but the inferences Dr. Waters made when he checked your condition." He scratched his head. "Did, um, Dean stitch your arm last night?"

"Sure he did, we both know how."

"Why would he do that rather than bring you right here?"

"Our insurance is crap. We're lucky to have it, but the deductable is sky high … we don't like to owe money to anyone. It's how Dad raised us. But Dean won't take a chance with head wounds." The lies slipped out easily. He gave the doctor his most sincere look. "At least my head wounds. Dean really freaked out when I couldn't stop crying. I haven't done that since I was a kid and had a skull fracture. I hope he wasn't rude to anyone."

"Your Dad in the service?"

"Yeah, Marines. How did you know?"

Jeffers sat down eyeing the stain. "That's what your brother said last night." He started writing in the chart. "Sam, I'm going to do a couple of things. First, I apologize for my colleague. He couldn't talk to you and concluded from your injuries and behavior that your brother might be abusing you."

Sam sputtered, "Abusing me? That's crazy. Dean pretty much raised me. Is that what the phone thing is about?"

"Abuse is never outside the realm of possibility, but yes, that's why the phones were removed. I'm not sure I would have drawn the same conclusions, or taken the same steps, but I wasn't here last night. Does your brother ever look, um, menacing?"

"He can, and he's real protective of me. That doctor is lucky he didn't accuse him of anything, because Dean would have gone ballistic."

"I'm going to have the nurse find your cell phone and get the room phone back. I'll also make sure your brother's visitation rights aren't restricted. He can stay in the room with you all night again if he wants. It sounds like he needs to be checked too. Have the nurse page me as soon as you see him. I'll get back here as soon as I can. Can you think of anything else?"

Sam shook his head a little bit.

"Then let me tell you what the MRI revealed and give you a check up."

* * *

Dean had no trouble at all getting to Sam's room. He was sure that was due to good luck rather than his sneaking ability, since he pretty much sucked at skulking and lurking right about now. The back of Sam's bed was up, but he was sound asleep. Dean came up on Sam's right side, and shook his arm.

"Sam, hey, Sam. Wake up will you?"

Sam still looked a little whacked out, but his eyes were clearer. "Dean, are you all right? Where have you been? They took my phone." He looked at him intently. "Shit, Dean, you look like road kill."

"Back at you. Are you better?"

"Let me have the doctor paged. It's just a concussion, no fracture, but I'm sure you want to check that out with him." He thumbed the button and asked the nurse who answered to page Dr. Jeffers. "Dean, what happened?"

He held up his hand triumphantly. "This is what happened. Your watch."

Sam took the watch, and son of a bitch, he was starting to cry again. He turned it over and over checking it carefully, and ended up rubbing his thumb over the inscription, unknowingly mimicking Dean's gesture. "You found it. It's not even damaged. And it has…" Sam was really crying now. "It even has … a little … zombie scar. And you love zombies!" He blew his nose on the tissue Dean held out.

"I'll get you another band, don't worry."

"No, no, it's better. I love the scar. I'll always remember how it got on there." He heard Sam take a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Dean, I should never have asked you to leave. You know I hate to be in hospitals by myself." He held out his hand for a second tissue. "I'm just so glad to have this back."

"No problem. The scout went down easy. The troop leader? He fought me tooth and nail for it."

Sam drew in a shaky breath. "It's just that I have so little of you that I can hold in my hands. What with the deal … I have to find a way to break it, but what if… what if … I just want more than a car and an amulet." He was openly crying again, accepted a third and fourth tissue, before trying his best to smile as he added, "And a leather coat that's too short for me." He held the watch out to Dean. "Will you help me get it on?"

The kid was going to break his heart. "You'll do fine, Sam, and we're going to get me out of it, OK?" This was so not what he wanted to talk about right now. He kept his eyes on Sam's face as he took the watch and fastened it on Sam's right wrist. "You know this doesn't mean we're engaged or anything, right?" This time when he looked up, Sam was drying his eyes and looked almost in control again. "Looks kind of weird there."

"It looks _great_ there. I'm really better, Dean, really. It's just like you say, there's still this huge untapped keg of emo in my head. I kept thinking it was gone forever." Like his brother might be. "Your hands are shaking. How bad is your back?"

"I'm fine, Sam, just tired." He sat on the edge of the chair. "While you've been sleeping the peaceful sleep of the drugged, it's been, um, busy where I was. Need to sleep and take a shower." He rubbed his face. "And shave. Did you tell me that those things moved around in daylight too? 'Cause if you did, I'm going to feel like an idiot."

"They do? No, I didn't see that anywhere. There was a second one?" Dean nodded slowly. "Did you go all Highlander on its ass?" Dean was looking at his hand, but remembered to nod again. "Why don't you sit on the bed? It's still hard for me to focus enough to see you over there."

He sighed but pulled himself up to sit on the bed by Sam's good arm, and dangled his feet. He closed his eyes. "Yeah, met Froggie-san number two. Did a Little John. Had to use a knife." He shook his head. "Anyhow, it got really disgusting." He brushed at something on his jeans. "And I still have some of its hair and crap on me. I should go before I start sneezing." He started to lean forward when Sam pulled him back.

"You need to wait for the doctor."

"I'm not s'posed to be here. Snuck in. Kick me out." He rubbed his eyes and rolled his head and shoulders. "Just want you not to cry. Can't take it." He yawned and started to stretch, wincing when his back pulled again. "Take a shower. Sleep."

"They won't kick you out. I took care of that. But you can't leave. I'll cry if you leave. You can take a shower in the bathroom later. But first, why don't you take your jacket off." He tugged at the sleeve.

"You gonna cry if I don't?"

"Maybe." He held the sleeve as Dean slowly pulled it off and tossed it on the seat of the chair. Sam shifted over, and pulled gently on Dean's arm again. "Why don't you relax until the doctor gets here? Come on, lay down." He kept pulling and Dean finally gave in, slumping to one side, his head on a pillow Sam hurriedly pushed under him.

"Jus' for a minute." Dean was already relaxing, half on and half off the bed.

"Get your legs up. Come on, get your legs up on the bed too." Dean took a slow breath. "I'll cry if you don't get your legs on the bed."

Dean complied with a groan. "Damn baby. Boots're dirty".

"I don't care. If you try to get off the bed, I'll cry."

"We're _still_ not engaged."

"No, but our first date is on Friday."

Dean sighed. "Bitch." Just before he fell asleep, he heard Sam say,

"Yeah, I am, and an emo one too, you jerk."

* * *

Sam woke up and cracked an eye open when he heard someone come in the room. Dean hadn't twitched. Winchester alarm system, Plan G – let the concussed guy keep watch. He saw Dr. Jeffers by the foot of the bed. Sam pointed his chin at Dean, now resting against Sam's shoulder. He'd managed to wrap an arm around Dean's arm and shoulder and pull his brother back against him, before he fell asleep himself.

He whispered, "My brother."

The doctor pointed at Sam's wrist. "Your watch?"

"Yeah." He continued to hold Dean as the doctor came around to his side of the bed, checking Dean's pulse, and feeling his forehead.

"Big brother, right?"

"How does everyone know that? He looks like he's 15 when he's asleep."

"Human behavior. He's got some cuts on his neck", he bent down and peered, "chest, shoulders, arms, and we already know about his back. Some kind of bite marks on his elbow?" He looked at Sam, and said quietly. "Whatever got you, got him didn't it?"

Trying to fight the inevitable, Sam nodded minutely. "Yeah, the cougar."

"This wasn't a cougar though, was it?" Sam didn't answer. "Whatever it was, I saw what it did to some bodies they found in the old cemetery on 617." He hesitated again, but Sam wouldn't fill the gap. "Just tell me, is it gone for good?"

"Yeah, they are, there were two. He killed both of them."

"Do I want to know what they were?"

"Not really. I'll give you my number before we leave. Just have to call."

They were both speaking softly, but even so, Dean started to shift out from under Sam's arm. He tightened his hold. "Hey Dean, hey. I've got you. Everything's OK. Just relax." He looked up at the doctor. "Take a couple of steps back. Seriously." The doctor perched on the chair. "Dean's really burning up."

"Fever – I'll have to check his back but probably from infection." He pointed at something on Dean's arm. "Or the bites. And we know about the blood loss …" Jeffers cut his eyes over to the chair, "stress, exhaustion. Maybe more. I'll run some tests if he'll let me."

Without warning, Dean came up off the bed, and stood between Sam and Jeffers. He was swaying a bit, but Sam could tell the whole menace vibe was working on the doc.

"Relax bro, this is Dr. Jeffers. Good guy. Wants to check your back, OK?"

Dean forced his eyes open wider, glancing at Sam. He shook his head and managed to say "What?" before his eyes rolled back and he fell bonelessly back into the bed. Sam yelled "Dean" and tried to grab him. Dean would have hit the floor if Jeffers hadn't lunged forward and gotten beneath him.

Sam sighed. "Guess you can run those tests now." as he pushed the call button.

* * *

Dean slept for twenty-four hours, tucked up in what had been the empty bed in Sam's room. The police had checked in and passed on their thanks, then a Wildlife officer who wanted to know where the body of the cougar was. Dr. Jeffers came in, and explained that Dean really wasn't in a coma – he walked to Dean's bed and woke him to prove it – just sedated and running a fever of 103 - before checking his back. Dean had received a unit of blood, and was on IV antibiotics and just a "bit" of morphine, which meant when he did wake up, just a head roll and a "Smmm?", he had no idea where he was, but reacted to Sam's presence with a sleepy grin, a muttered "Girl", or "Y'OK?" or "Assmunch" and once inexplicably "Linda Peterson" before slipping back to sleep.

During the next twenty four hours, the fever spiked, and he slept more and moved restlessly, snoring loudly enough to drown out the TV when the staff left him on his back after checking his bandages, or giving him a sponge bath. Sam got a hand to the bathroom, Dean got most of the nursing staff cooing over him. Dean also got a pillow in the face, lobbed over from Sam's bed, when the snoring got too loud, Sam trying to either suffocate Dean or make him roll over. He would have an arm off the bed, or a leg, or both, apparently only keeping off the floor due to the mysterious magnetic attraction Dean had always had to mattresses. Most of the time, he looked like a sock puppet someone had dropped on the bed from a height.

Sam was walking and alert, his head only twinging now and again by the time Dean had been asleep fifty hours and Sam was finally reduced to a panicked phone call to Bobby for reassurance. Bobby called back after researching over night, and told Sam that sometimes sleep was only sleep. Especially if Dean was feverish, sedated and on morphine. He was nearby doing research, and offered to come to where they were and give Sam a break, but just talking to him made Sam calm down so much he declined. Bobby showed up anyway four hours later, and as their Uncle Bobby, shook hands with Jeffers, threatened to sue Dr. Winters for endangering Sam's recovery, and sat quietly reading People and Dog Fancy magazines from the waiting room, cap pulled low, as both his boys slept under his watchful eye. After he made them bring in a new chair.

They'd checked out after Dean had slept for almost three days and the doctor finally cut out all the sedation and the morphine. Sam and Bobby spent a couple of quality hours waiting while a groggy and bitchy Dean endured a final examination. He almost fell asleep in the wheelchair on the way to the car which worried Sam so much he insisted on driving the Impala behind Bobby's blue truck to South Dakota, loaded with their luggage from the motel and Dean sprawled over most of the front bench seat.

Dean was delighted, once he woke up long enough to drink some coffee, to be in Bobby's yard, and dragged Sam out to work on the Impala, showing him how to checking the spark plugs, change the oil, check the carb, head, and lots of other things Sam had heard of over the years, but had never seen, touched, scraped his knuckles, or burned his fingers on. He couldn't do much one handed, but kept his attention on what Dean was doing, secretly hoping that he would never have to remember what he was learning.

He even had Dean show him some flanges but found them anticlimactic.

* * *

After a couple of days, they were sitting on the porch, drinking beer. Dean said, "I saw what you added to the watch."

"Yeah?"

"Totally in character for you to mess with perfection." He took a long pull on the bottle. "You know, you always use twice the words to say what I can say in, like, one." He belched. "Top that one, bitch."

Sam smiled, gulped air and belched back. "Consider yourself topped."

Dean waited. "Come on, say it back."

"Say what back?"

"You know what. I say bitch and you say…"

Sam gazed innocently back at him. That little brat. "Come on, you owe me. I went back and got the watch."

Nothing.

"I had to cut off its head with a toe nail clipper."

He was sure Sam would have whistled if he dared.

"I puked like eight times."

Sam took a long pull on his beer, gulped air and belched again, looking across the yard.

"You cried. You cried like a teensy little girl, Sam. You wept on me."

He reached over and pushed on both sides of Sam's mouth, making his lips move. "Say it, say it, say it!"

OK, he dared. Sam was humming "Princes of the Universe".

"You, you… ikeike!" he was outraged. "Fucknuckle! You know how this works. I say bitch, you bitch, and you say … Son of a bitch, you were the one who put it on the watch."

Sam opened another beer and handed one to Dean. Bobby came out on the porch, Cheney on his heels, took a beer from Sam, and sat down in his rocking chair. Dean twisted off the cap and flicked it, popping Sam right on his self righteous, superior, honking big nose. Cheney tried to sit on Dean's lap.

Bobby spoke. "How much longer am I going to listen to this?" He drank his beer and glared at them both.

Dean rallied, looked at Sam. "You owe me. I risked my life for that watch. Say it!"

Still nothing. Damnation. He was going to crack this kid.

"Not even for your _fiancée_? " He simpered. "Do it for me, honey?"

Sam smiled, and he heard a stifled bark of laughter from Bobby.

"Come on Sam, say it." He huffed. "Well if that's the way you want to be about it." Still Sam all innocent faced. "Jerk."

That made Sam smile like a jack-o-lantern with dimples. He looked soulfully at Dean, and said, "Bitch."

* * *

References

Since I borrowed Merisha's watch, I also used a free hand to (steal) mention or gently use stuff from other stories while I was at it, mostly personality quirks and such that intrigued or amused me. In a spirit of fairness however, I stole more than liberally from my other fics too.

Bitch watch – _All I Want for Christmas_ by Merisha

Japanese disembodied floating head – _Candle in the Window_ by Thru Terry's Eyes

Other Japanese demon stuff about which Dean complains – _Unforgiven_ by SupernaturalGeek, _Thin Ice of a New Day_ by Sue Pokorny, and _In The Light_ by Gaelic Spirit. All three are very good fics, Gaelic's brilliant, and all in a freakish coincidence have Japanese supernatural thingies and came out about the same time as Terry's fic. _Kyoutendouchi! _Amazing!

Don't leave Sam in the hospital by himself – _Last Flight Out_ by Muffy Morrigan

Crying concussed Sam – _Renovations_ by Infinite Shadow


End file.
